Sunday, 20 March 1881

I cannot do anything myself and ask Amélie to paint in the small head in the middle. Amélie is very kind, by the way; we lunch together, the two of us, off the same piece of card on a stool — a napkin on top makes quite a little table. Marie brings champagne, and we were preparing a tableau vivant for Julian’s arrival — the bottle thrown on the floor, ourselves flung on the carpet with the guitar between us, and Tortora, the little saint of my painting, instructed to play the drunkard on the table — when the princess arrives with Bojidar and then Gavini; the last plays the connoisseur and criticises my St John Tortora, and after this visit Marie calls him a dolt! But then — if people of society don’t find it charming, what can one expect from the public?!
Then my holy family — that is what is sickening at such times! Oh, the family, their busy, anxious air! And Bojidar, who accompanies the porters through the streets, happy for passers-by to suppose him the artist. At the Palais de l’Industrie it was very amusing — the crowd calling out and making remarks about the unfortunate canvases arriving. Bojidar had gone inside; I had some difficulty getting myself recognised as the artist. At last I hurry through, elegant and stared at by those dear colleagues; we catch up with the ever-present Bojidar and I can see a few pictures. Mine looks rather small, though it is a metre and a half high by nearly two metres wide. A group of men was standing in front of it; I fled so as not to hear their remarks — besides, it seemed to me they knew it was mine.
I spoke seriously to Julian and explained my feeling. I do not want him to think me capable of foolish vanity; no, I am not saying this out of bravado, and it will not break my heart not to be counted among the excitable women — no...
He understands perfectly, and so do I. He says I shall be accepted respectably and will even have some success — but not the one we had dreamed of. The men downstairs will not plant themselves before the canvas exclaiming: “What? A woman made this!” Well, I proposed staging an accident to save face — but he will not have it. He had planned for a success and admits his own pride is not entirely satisfied, but that it will do. And in those circumstances I am exhibiting!!!!
Alas, yes! All the same, he encourages me only because he does not believe in my sensible resolutions; despite my declarations, he takes me for a mere woman and tells himself he would wound me by telling me the pure truth. Yet I have said everything!... The fact is I am a serious student and have no need to exhibit in order to receive instruction; I exhibit out of vanity — so if it is poor, there is no point...
At last! It is done; I am free of the canvas — but the anxieties continue up to and including the first of May, provided I get a good number! Oh, I am going to paint torsos and make sketches! Ah, you will see.
When we get home, Bojidar comes to see us and I go up to la Brimont’s, where I stay a very long time; we talk of everything — she is kind and intelligent.
I have signed it “Andrey” — that will be my name. Equally French as Russian: André is Andrey in Russian, and it begins with an A; A comes at the beginning of the catalogue and one learns one’s fate sooner.

Notes

Marie Dubois, the maid of the Atelier Julian — not Marie Bashkirtseff herself. ↩
The Palais de l’Industrie on the Champs-Élysées was where the annual Salon was held until 1900. ↩
The Salon catalogue was arranged alphabetically, so artists whose names began with A learned early whether they had been accepted and found their catalogue numbers promptly. ↩